Potes Videre
by PeverellSlytherin
Summary: History is not always written by the victors... This is a story about one boy who history got very wrong, and one a boy who history got very much right... Please Read And Review!
1. It's All So New

A boy, no older than 16, with jet black hair and a fringe hanging in his pale blue eyes, has sat outside every night for the past fortnight looking at the stars. Just looking. Not observing anything, not searching for any answers, not wishing on the stars. His pants-clad legs dangling off the side of the astronomy tower.

Some nights, his eyes travel to the black lake, the moon glistening on the surface of the unblemished waters. Some nights, his eyes travel to the small patch of forest they had planted two months prior. Some nights, his eyes travel nowhere at all. On nights like those, he prays.

He isn't a religious boy, but he prays all the same. He prays and hopes, not for the first time, that there really is something greater than him out there. He prays and hopes he isn't as alone as he thinks he is.

The boy knows that if anything happens to him, no one will be able to protect this beautiful haven they have created. His friends are there still, sleeping peacefully in their beds, none the wiser of the danger out there. They think they are safe here.

He has tried many times to explain to them why they need wards around Hogwarts, why they need to keep certain people at arms length, but they do not listen to him. They think he is trying to play favourites. They do not understand the danger out there. Not fully.


	2. So Why Not

A boy, no older than 17, is standing in front of a brand new town. He has been standing there for a while now. He will stand there for quite a while more. He has done this every night since the town was created and people moved in.

He is contemplating, just like every other night, whether he should gaurd the town with wards even though his friends agreed against it. They are too trusting. They are peacefully asleep in their beds, he checked. He does that every night before he stands here. He has to make sure they are still here, still alright, still breathing.

The muggles have taken Salem by storm. Burnt everyone, witch or not. Some were even muggles, picking mint for their evening meals. They didn't care. The people here think they are safe, that they still have time because Salem feels like worlds away to them.

They forget that there has already been witch killings in England, in Scotland, in Ireland. They forget that muggles are muggles no matter where they live. So the boy stands there watching, waiting, for the time when wards are too late and fire burns the sky.


	3. Protect It

A boy, no older than 18, is lying on the ground in front of a town called Hogsmead. Countless bodies are lying around him, with him. He put them there. His shallow breaths are the only indication that he has not succumbed to the wounds adorning his body. His blood travels in little streams out of his body to mingle with the earth around him.

His biggest fear has come true. A mob of muggles have come to the village, fires burning high and swords in their hands. The boy was standing there that night, just like all the nights before, his wand in his hand and his sword at his side.

They would have torn the town to pieces and Hogwarts would have followed. It was not an armed castle, it was an informative one. The boy could not let that happen. His friends and students were in there. He had to protect them.

The boy lying on the ground made a choice that night. He set up wards that were long overdue. The dead muggles' blood was used to create stone soldiers and their bodies turned to ash to create the keystone, a stone needed to ground all wards. The boy was the last part. His essence was pulled into the wards to secure them and his body turned to dust to finalise the spells.

The boy died that night to protect everything he knew and the world would not even know. His friends woke up the next day to discover him gone and wards set up so strongly, nothing they did could even scratch them. They ranted at his disobedience and cursed at his audacity, but they never did realise what he sacrificed that night.

The boy's legacy would be smeared over the years. He would be the one that, history said, ran away. History never did say how many times he stayed.


	4. Little Boy

A boy, no older than 14, lifts his head up from the penceive. Angry tears glisten in his ice blue eyes, his brown fringe pasted to his forehead.

He found his family's penceive in a hidden chamber at his school. The grandson of the boy in the penceive had left it there, hoping it would be found one day and not be destroyed.

The boy looks down at the clear surface of the water and hates just a tiny bit more than he used to.


End file.
